Eat the Babies

It has been a strange week, especially weather wise. Also fishing boat wise. First the fishing boats. As you can see above, they all came out of the harbor at the same time, just before the sun crested the eastern mountains. They were all coming to Baia Ranella, also, and just around the corner near Capo San Marco. They were looking for baby fish, or neonati, or novellame, depending on how you want to name them. They are really small, and somewhat of a delicacy. Of course, netting them means that there are fewer to grow up and be caught in the future, but it does not seem to matter.

Three years ago, the regional lawmakers banned all fishing for the neonati. A reporter went to interview with one of the leaders of the legislature about the ban, and was taken to lunch at the very fine restuarant that is exclusively for the use of government officials. While he was listening to the reasons for the ban on catching and selling novellame, they had a nice meal of novellame. They started out with them raw with just a bit of lemon juice, then some served over pasta, and then a group that had been lightly sautéed. When the article was printed, a fishing season for the baby fish was announced, as well as limits on the catch.

There is still a strict limit, so the boats all come out to try to get the fish while the Coast Guard Boat crew and the Carabinieri boat crew and the Guardia Finance boat crew are in port having coffee and a dolce for breakfast at Bar Charley, or one of the other port bars. Sometimes the enforcement boats patrol in the day light, so the fishermen come out at night. Sometimes the reverse. It is not even a game, it is a rehearsed dance, and everyone knows their part.

It will be a real shame when there are no fish to be caught near here, but that is what they are working toward, and already the fishing haul is dwindling, and the tuna catch is almost non existent. I do not know what sort of fish the novellame would grow into, but I do know that they are smaller than anchovies, and they have huge eyes. When Maryellen and Sue and I ate in Castelvetrano, they brought us two servings of them by mistake. We did not eat them, but there must have been thirty to forty baby fish in each serving.


Then there is the weather. Two days ago it dawned bright and sunny. There were not enough clouds or dust particles around to make a good sunrise shot. Twenty minutes later, the day turned to night, and clouds raced over the mountains to the north, and DOWN toward Sciacca, blotting out the sun completely. Then the water came. It did not seem like rain, but rather like solid water. All of the sand from last week's Sirocci was washed off my cars. I could not see the cars, the clouds were so thick and so near, the rain so heavy. A few minutes later, it had stopped raining, and I could watch the clouds push out to sea. Later that day, a rescue helicopter interrupted my reading as it headed out to sea, probably to help some fisherman who was in trouble with the storm. When I looked out, I noticed the double rainbow you see here. That was quickly followed by more rain from clouds again chasing down the mountain, and Lemoncello II and I fell asleep to the crashes of thunder over Capo San Marco, heading toward Ribera or out to sea. Quite the day.

A Visit to Pietraperzia

This weekend I took a ride over to Pietraperzia to visit Fran's cousin Angelo and his family. It is a sure way to see some cute kids and get a good meal. It was a nice visit for me, and I will let the pictures of the kids and the trees do my talking this time. That is Angelo with Carinna smiling away on her grand father's knee. And smile was what Carinna did best. She seems such a happy baby, and I do not think I heard her cry once!!



This is Marianna. She is a little sweetheart, and was about Carrinna's age when we first met her. She is already to go to school, and has the most beautiful smile in the world. At first she was a little shy around me, but she warmed up quickly. She helped her grand mother set the table, and unlike Carrina, is not a big eater. (Carrina tried some of everything, from pasta to fish to water to coffee. You name it, Carrina would try it).





Last, and certainly not least, is Dalila. Dalila was three years old when we first met her, and even at that age she tried to teach me how to play Scopa (she says she even remembers that), and would talk away at us in Italian, and get frustrated that we did not understand her. Now, she is learning English in school, and even practiced a little bit with me. She has a world class smile, and while she ate at home with her mother, she rushed over as soon as she could to visit with me.



Before dinner, Angelo and I took a ride out in the country to see some parts of Pietraperzia that Fran loved. One thing she loved were the old olive trees that were around, and Angelo knew a place that had wonderful old trees, with Almond trees in bloom behind them. It was a very special ride for me, and I think Fran would have liked it as well.

The (Sur) Real Carnevale

I have already written about the real Carnevale, as far as I am concerned, so this will be just a brief post about the other, surreal Carnevale, the one that brings all the folks to Sciacca. Yes, I did go to it, for two nights. The first night alone, to hang out with my friends at Panneficio Americana, who were busy selling 300 kilos of sausage in sandwiches, and working twenty hour days to do that and bake the rolls that the sandwiches were made with. The second night, I went with Bridgette's brother Donato, and his neighbor from Mississauga, Carl, the retired Toronto cop, and wondered around greeting all the folks in the street that I knew. I also danced in front of one of the floats, and fortunately, I did not take a picture of that.

Carnevale always reminds me of Dylan's Desolation Row ('They're selling postcards of the hanging, . . .The circus is in town'). Or of the State Fair in Syracuse, where I have worked, or the County Fairs of Monroe or Chautauqua Counties, or of the CNE. The same thing. The same food. The same smells. The same folks.

But the costumes were good, especially the costume of Peppe Nappa, who appears in green above. He is the spirit of Carnevale, and his float hands out spirits for Carnevale for free to those who do not want to buy thier own wine. Ah, Carnevale. The glasses are small, so folks still end up buying plenty of wine.

It was noisy, it was dirty, and most of all, it was fun. It was the community coming together to have a good time, and to make silly looking floats, it was a time to help me understand why people even on the fifth floor of apartment
buildings close their shutters. It was also a time for the local poets to make up song lyrics that went with the satirical themes of the floats, and then the musicians put them to Sicilian folk tunes.

Of course it rained one night, and the floats all managed to brave the wind and the rain without having any damage done to them. The winning float entry will be determined soon, when all the ballots and politics are finished, and then the groups that build the five story tall, animated paper mache floats will begin to plan next year's edition, which means they will have to read the papers and see who they should make fun of next year. My bet is that there will be a float about former and future Prime Minister Prodi, about the American elections, and about soccer. Of course, that is a sucker bet, as it has been right for a few years now.

The day after Carnevale, everyone slept in. Stores remained closed for the unofficial holiday of Carnevalone, and families got together in homes or in the country to have a nice relaxing, mid afternnoon breakfast. What could be better.

A Visit With Friends

It was a beautiful morning, just the sort of day that I am glad to have company. Our friend Maryellen (see her blog link to the right) had a friend visiting from Atlanta, and they decided to stop by for a few days and see the western or better part of Sicily. We spent Saturday eating loads of wonderful seafood, and then talking our heads off into, for me, the wee hours of the morning, although really it was barely into the double digits of the evening time.

I got up early Sunday and shot this sunrise picture, which boded well for our planned activities. Maryellen has been around most of the island, however she had not seen Selinunte yet, and she and her friend Susan wanted to visit there. So we got in the car fairly early, stopped by to take a look at the carnivale floats, have a dolce for breakfast, and then got on the road to Selinunte. For the Americans who feel like giants when they visit Sicily, Selinunte is a good place to visit. All you have to do is stand near the temple and feel like a real runt. This is a shot of the two of them standing at the end of the temple that is in the first grouping.

When we finished our tour of both parts of the ruins, it was time for lunch. We went to (yet another) seafood restaurant, this one in Castelvetrano. Silly Maryellen got one of the meat dishes that they grill on a charcoal fire in the dining room, but I had their wonderful risotto with spinach and shrimp, and Susan had a delicious pasta with seafood. It is a fine restaurant, and we were amused by a man who sat and talked to himself throughout his solitary meal. (It was a bit scary as we left the restaurant and saw him getting into his Mercedes Sports Coupe!!) I found myself wondering if that is what I would become like, as I got more and more used to my solitary life. Of course it is the fear of just such a thing happening that made me especially glad to have Susan and Maryellen visiting.

We returned home as the skies got more and more threatening. It was the second night of the parade of carnival floats, so of course the weather would be bad, and try to ruin the work on the floats that the folks for the last three months. The wind became strong and cold, so we decided to stay in, and I cooked a wonderful sausage meal for us. Well, I thought it was wonderful.

The next morning they loaded up some books that Fran and I had finished, and that will be read by all sorts of folks at Sigonella Naval Air Station, and they headed back to the more populated, modern, and touristy part of the island. While they did bring in a load of supplies from the American grocery store on base, I will try to get over to just simply visit them soon, without having to do my usual shopping spree.

Thanks, Maryellen and Susan, for a wonderful weekend.

The Real Carnevale

Carnevale arrived in Sciacca on Thursday night. As expected, it was a dark and stormy night, that is one of the stories of Carnevale here. For the second year, the main procession was going to be held in La Perriera, a relatively new section of the city, instead of the Historic Center, from which it was moved when the main Piazza was being repaired. The first two nights of Carnevale, they were not going to parade the large allegorical carts, or cari, but only have the dancers dancing to the music of Carnevale.

That was fine with me. I had been invited to the real Carnevale, the one celebrated by AGAPE, the association that provides day programming for differently abled adults in Sciacca, the organization that Paolo and Ignatzia give their heart and soul to, because they do so much for their daughter Guisy.

This was the third time I had attended their Carnevale party, and there were always more volunteers than parents or clients. It was always a festive mood, and everyone had a good time. But this was my first time without Fran, and that made it special for me, and special for them. Those that had not seen me around town rushed up to give their condolences, and volunteers helped clients do this as well. I was touched by it all.

We always give them a contribution for Christmas, and this year they used it to buy a large television set. When Fran died, they decided that it needed a plaque with Fran's name.

When it was time to eat the arancini and pizza, two of the clients made sure that I was fed, and fed, and fed. Then the parents tried to bring me even more to eat. (When I was leaving, another parent stopped me. He had a large bag of arancini and pizza for me to take home and eat for the rest of the week, because Fran would not be there to cook for me. It was really touching.

What was even more touching was the good time we had. We celebrated the end of the time of meat eating, and got ready for Ash Wednesday with a great celebration. Everyone enjoyed each other's company, danced, talked, watched TV Francesca, and had a good time. It felt like family to me, probably because in many ways it is one of my families here in Sciacca. And that is good. I am so pleased to have them, and to celebrate with them. Another wonderful part of Sciacca that Fran and I came to love.

Madonna, Stop the Plague!! . . Thank You

Way back when the Black Death, or the Plague, or the Peste, as it was called here, was ravaging much of Europe, the good people of Sciacca prayed to the Madonna to protect the people from it. Miraculously, the plague stopped after a certain number of prayers, and the town adopted the Madonna del Soccorso as its patron. They then built a Basilica in town to honor her, and it became the Chiesa Madre, or Mother Church. The town throws a big bash every February to honor her and thank her, and then again during the summer so that the warm weather tourists can enjoy the spectacle as well. Such double Saint days are fairly common, and also take place in Catania, Palermo, and Naples. In addition, the statue of the Madonna del Soccorso flies to Boston each year, where the Sciacense who have settled there have their own procession. Once Fran and I took a cab, and the driver told us his family was from Sciacca, and he took part in the procession every year.

I decided to go into town on the afternoon of the festa, just to see what was going on. A crowd had gathered in front of the Basilica, and the town band was doing its best to entertain them by attempting musical interludes. People went into the Basilica to pay their respects, and were ushered out as quickly as the ushers could ush. At exactly 4 o'clock, the appointed hour, which is unheard of in Sicily, a priest exited the church, with two helpers carrying his portable microphone and speakers. He asked everyone to clear a path, as the Madonna was about to leave the church. The bells started pealing, and the crowd quietly looked at the doors of the church, waiting for the statue to arrive.

Suddenly, out of the huge doors of the Basilica, the even huger statue of the Madonna bent her head and made her way down the stairs, carried by about fifty burly, barefoot men, straining to keep the platform that she was on fairly level as they shouldered the support poles. The crowd went wild, as cheers and tears greeted her, and policemen and priests tried to clear a path.

The Madonna went down to a small overlook by the sea, where she looked down at the fishing fleet, and the lowering sun. Then slowly she backed up to Via Victorio Emmanuele, and was slowly lowered to the street as the men carrying her took a cigarette break, and the leader handed out prayer cards to anyone who gave him twenty euros. People also brought huge bunches of flowers to put on the statue, and children were held up to kiss the statue. It was quite touching. When break time was over, she was hoisted up again, and the procession headed down to Piazza Scandaliota for another quick look at the sea, before climbing up the steep street next to city hall, so that Madonna could visit the Cathedral, where her son is. She then continued to Porto Palermo, and then down Via Licata to Piazza Friscia, where she turned the corner and headed home.

I did not follow the procession the whole way, but rather decided to wait for her to return to Piazza Friscia, where one of my favorite buildings is. Because most people were either following the procession, or in a fit of sanity had gone home to enjoy an evening off work (it was a holiday, and even the post office was closed in Sciacca!), the Piazza was almost empty, and looked beautiful in the gathering dusk.

I visited with friends in the Piazza, until we heard the noise of the band and the approaching procession. The barefoot statue bearers were almost exhausted after their four kilometer, four hour walk. Their feet must have been torn up by the rough paving stones in the streets of Sciacca. But for me, it was worth seeing. In the winter, people seem to take the idea of having been saved from the plague more seriously, and there are not as many folks out selling snow cones, pistachio nuts, and plastic horns. The balloon sellers were the only ones out in strength.

With the Madonna safely back in the Basilica, it is now time for Sciacca to concentrate on getting ready for Carnevale. That is where the plastic horns, balloons, pistachio nuts, and everything else really belong.

The Night of the Hunters

Or Lidue Might Be Ticked

It was a dark and stormy night. It was raining, the parking area lights were not working. A car pulled up outside, and its horn started honking furiously. Totà jumped out of the car, ran up the steps, told me to put on my coat, we were going to eat uccelini. Literally, that means baby birds, but in fact, he just meant we were going to eat small birds. I had no idea what he was talking about, but I put my coat and hat on and jumped into his car. Once again, it was 'Anything Can Happen' Day.

He took me to Angelo Sinacorri's apartment in our complex. Angelo works at the hospital in Sciacca, and, like so many other Sciaccensi, he lives in the city except during the summer. His son comes here about once a week to play soccer on the soccer pitch, and occasionally has a small party at the apartment. He is a good guy.

The apartment was just about full. It is a small apartment, and they had strung two tables together to make one long table. Onofrio, hereon in known as Pippo, was there, as was Emilio from the little house just below our apartment, two or three others who have apartments here, and the rest were people I did not know from Adam. With Totò and I, there were fourteen of us.

Some of the men were busy putting little naked birds on small wooden skewers. Pippo was filling a large pot with water, and Emilio was trying to get the charcoal grill going. Someone else was making a salad, and someone else was setting the table, and some one else was pouring out pitchers of Nero D'Avola wine from a box. Totò explained that everyone there were friends, and that they had all gone hunting during hunting season, and now they were going to eat some of what they had killed. Tonight it was birds. Some other time it might be rabbits. Some other time it might be friends of Dick Cheney.

As folks took care of whatever they were taking care of, Pippo kept a constant patter going, mainly telling Sicilian Jokes. Sicilian Jokes are Italy's answer to American Polish Jokes, or Canadian Newfy Jokes, or Republican Party realities. There was one about a Sicilian who had gone north to visit, and someone noticed he had his underpants on backwards when he was going to the bathroom, and called him stupid because of it, so the guy, in order to not appear stupid, started to go everywhere walking backwards, so no one could accuse him of having his underpants on backwards. You get the idea.

After watching organized chaos for about thirty minutes, it was time to eat. We started with the 8 pounds of pasta that Pippo had made. After it was cooked, it was mixed with Pippo's home made sauce, which was apparently made up of a few onions, a few carrots, a few tomatoes, and the drippings from some birds that had been baked. It did not seem like much of a sauce in the beginning, but oh my, was it good. The Pippo brought the first course of birds out of the oven. There was one bird for each person, with a few birds left over for the hungry ones. They were small birds, about the size of Lidue, our canary. I thought Lidue might be ticked at me, until I remembered Fran feeling guilty about eating a chicken with Lidue looking at her, and I explained that it was no worse than our having eaten other mammals. So I hope Lidue takes a liberal interpretation of this, and does not think I would eat him. At least not today.

The birds were good. They tasted like, well, they did not taste like chicken. They tasted more like, and this surprised me, liver. Good liver. Great liver. It was all dark meat, and Totò explained that they were not that moist because they were wild birds, and did not have enough fat. He thought they were quail, although he said that the hunters had four different kinds of small birds, and once they were plucked and ready for cooking, no one could really tell them apart. Not even their mothers.

When we finished our little birds, Emilio brought the next course in fresh from the grill. We were each given a skewer with three birds on it that had been cooked over charcoal. I was not that hungry, and another man wanted only one bird, so we split the skewer two and one. Totò warned me to watch out for the bones.

Again, they were good. Again, they tasted like liver, good liver. These were stuffed with sausage. I say stuffed, but not in the way one would stuff a turkey in the US of A. Here, a two inch piece of sausage was up into the bird where the innards had been, and it ran from outside the throat opening to outside the . . . other opening. The sausage was to give it some fat while it was cooking, but it also tasted good to me. The salad was passed around at this point as well.

Then we had salad, then oranges from Totò's uncle's orange grove. Then all of a sudden the dolce appeared. There was a cake that Totò called 'Una Torta Americana', but it was really sort of like a double layer pie crust slathered with apricot preserves, then dusted with pistachios finely ground, then criss crossed with more pie dough, then whole pistachio nuts added. It was great, but not real American as I remember. There were also cannoli with fresh ricotta filling, with either chocolate pieces or pistachio nuts inside.

Then came the grappa, the amaro, the lemoncello, arangina, and the Zabbibo. Zabbibo is a strong and sweet white wine from Pantelleria. Arangina is like lemoncello, only made with oranges. Lemoncello is like arangina, but made with lemons. Amaro is a bitter liquore, as the name implies, and grappa is distilled wine, which can be used in kerosene heaters and top fuel dragsters.

A man who runs a mom and pop grocery store near the post office started telling more stories about Sicilians who had gone north to work, and of course Pippo helped out.

I was surprised when I got there that I was friends with six of the thirteen men who were there. I was even more surprised when I left, and felt like I was friends with all of them. It was my first real time at a 'boys night out' sort of thing in Sicily, and I enjoyed it very much. It was a wonderful evening, full of good cheer, and I found myself laughing and smiling more than at any other time since Fran became ill. Angelo told me that Fran would have liked to see me laughing, and i think he was right. I felt at home, and I felt even closer to Fran. I wish she could have been here to enjoy it with me.

Dovè Francesca - Italian

When our dear friend Maria Marchese Sciortino, Ignatzia's sister, read the English version of Dovè Francesca, she offered to translate it. Maria wrote the wonderful book A Pinch of Sicily, in which she described growing up in Sciacca, and moving the the US. It is filled with great stories of the old times, and great Sicilian recipes as well. Fran helped edit her text for her, and now she has returned the favor. This is for all of our Italian friends, who visit the website, but sometimes have a hard time with the English. Thank you Maria, and thank you all my friends here in Sicily.

DOVE' FRANCESCA

Dovè Francesca
E' nella punta del tramonto
Guarda le onde vacillare
Nella vecchia ruoti del mulino
Aspettando il tramonto
Guardano verso Selinunte

Dovè Franci
E' nel suo giardino
Aiutando le piante morte e rivivere
E le piante vive a refliorire

Dovè Franca
Sta respirando
L'area delle spiaggia della baia de Rennella
Giocando coi pesci
Ma non capisco perche
Stanno in ginocchio
Tutti attona a lei

Dovè Chicca
Lei e nella sua terrazza
Guarda la luce, le nuvole
Le stelle o il sole sorgere
O sta leggando un libro

Dovè Chich
Lei è nel mio cuore
E nel cuore dei suoi figli
E sempre sarà là
Anche sesentiamo tanto la sua mancanza fisica

Dovà Francine
Lei è con noi tutti.

Stampa Stampa Stampa

Stampa Stampa Stampa. . . e altri cosi

Please excuse my attempt at an Italian title. This writing is about Italy, and Italian writing, and Italian stamping, and other things. It is the experience of death in Italy, and what it has entailed for me (so far). Stampa Stampa Stampa.

'Stampa Stampa Stampa' was what Fran always said when we had to do anything official, because it always involved going to at least one bureaucrat, waiting for them to pay any attention to us, and then wait while they found the correct stamp(s) to stamp our papers. When our papers were stamped, they were stamped with great authority, and usually more than once. The less important the document, the harder the stamp. The less important the bureaucrat, the more times the document was stamped.

Fran absolutely hated this part of being in Italy. She hated to go to the city offices to register as a resident. She hated to go to the post office to pick up special mail. She hated to have her permesso di soggiorno renewed. She dreaded the idea of trying to get a driver's license. Too many bureaucrats, too many stamps.

For this, I suppose it is better that Fran died first, leaving me to deal with the particular and peculiar bureaucracy involved in death.

Fran died on a Tuesday morning. We had hoped to travel to the states and seek medical treatment there the previous Saturday, however, she was declared medically unfit to travel. Before that, we were going to check her out of the hospital against Dr.'s advice and go home so she could supervise the packing. We were not to be allowed her medical records, which are usually the property of the patient, but we were able to get an 'unofficial copy', i.e. . . one that had not been stamped. As it was, she could not travel, and she waited in the hospital until early the next morning, when she was transferred to the specialty hospital in Palermo. She was accompanied in the ambulance by her medical papers, properly stamped.

After she died, I tried to get things in order so that I could go to America and be with her kids, and her family. I was called back to Palermo before I could leave. The hospital needed me to sign a document. The document said that she had left the hospital due to death. I signed it, and it was taken to a back office, and I waited while a bureaucrat read (his) document, came out to check my passport and make sure it was me who signed the document, then took it back to his office to ......stamp it. Luckily I had a friend with me who explained what was going on.

I then had to go and talk to the people who were handling the cremation. They had another form for me to sign, even though I had already signed two forms for them. The new form had to be stamped over my signature after I signed it.

Then I got news that the crematorium in Palermo was broken. It is the ONLY crematorium in southern Italy. The tecnicos who would fix the crematorium said they would not start work on it until after Christmas, as it was too close to Christmas. They thought it would take a long time to fix. Not a lot of folks get cremated in southern Italy, so there was not a huge line of folks waiting for the crematorium. Fran would be kept in a cold locker while she waited. Again, she would have hated that, because she HATED to be cold.

While I was in the states, I got word that the crematorium was fixed, and a friend would go and witness the cremation, sign the appropriate papers, and watch while they were stamped. Right after Fran was cremated, the crematorium broke again. I find myself wondering what sort of rocket scientist is needed to build an extremely hot oven!

After returning to Sicily, I had to go to Palermo to pick up the cremains. I figured that would be fairly simple. HAH!! I had to go to the guys who arranged for the cremation, and they took me to the crematorium where I had to sign a document, watch them stamp it, and then go to a Provincial Office for the Dead. We had to take a copy of the stamped document, freshly stamped itself, to the office.

At the Provincial office, I had to sign three forms. They made five copies of each form, and compared my signature on each of the originals and each of the copies with my signature on my passport, looking at me each time to also compare the picture with my face. Neither my face, my signature nor the picture changed during this process. Not even in the copy machine. Then each of the five copies of the three documents, plus the three originals, had to be stamped by three different stamps. Stampa Stampa Stampa . . . Stampa. Then the guy from the funeral agency had to run out and buy two postage type tax stamps for the original and each copy of one of the forms, tax stamps, that were affixed to the documents, and then the documents were stamped by yet another stamp over the tax stamps.

One of the forms, it turns out, had to have my car license plate on it. I was asked what my plate number was, and I could not remember, and I had taken a bus into Palermo, but they said they needed one, so I made it up. That was fine with them. I needed the form in case the Carabinieri stopped me and thought I might be illegally transporting the ashes of a dead person. Fortunately for all concerned, the bus was not stopped, so we got away with transporting ashes on a bus that was not given special permission to transport the ashes. I can not imagine how many stamps would have been needed if we had been stopped for that.

We also had to wait for Agrigento Province to give permission for me to transport the ashes from Palermo Province to Agrigento Province, in which Sciacca is located. We sent a stamped form by fax to Agrigento, which they finally stamped and sent back, and then Palermo restamped it.

Then we were off to the crematorium again, where they would fax the appropriately stamped documents to the crematorium giving us permission to take possession of the ashes. Of course the secretary at the crematorium was using the fax phone to discuss pranzo arrangements with her boy friend, so we had to wait for a while for the fax to come in. Once it came it, I had to sign it, she had to stamp it, her boss had to read it, check my signature and face against those on my passport, make a copy of a document for us, stamp it, and give it to us and send us off to the storage area for completed cremations.

When we got there, someone had called ahead. They did not look at any of our paperwork, just handed us the urn of ashes through the window of the car, and off we were.

Fran would have hated it. I was not too pleased. But that is a part of life here.

Please do not read this document unless it has been properly stamped.

The news from Sicily - February 2007

Well, I think it has been a fairly strange news week, so I have decided to write a short piece on the top stories, as I see them. Of course there are stories about soccer, indeed, soccer in Sicily, and I think it got some coverage in the US. There are also stories about gasoline, the mafia, and the upcoming Carnevale celebration in Sciacca.

First, the soccer. After the big match between cross island rivals between Palermo and Catania, played in Catania, there was a big riot. The sort of thing one might expect after a city in the US wins the World Series, the NCAA Football or Basketball title, the NBA championship, or some other hometown makes good event. Indeed, in Catania, the rioting started during the second half, outside the stadium, and the game had to be suspended for a little while as the players adjusted to the tear gas that drifted onto the playing field. After the game was over, the rioting started in earnest, and over 1,000 polizioti battled the disgruntled Catania fans. The police used tear gas, their truncheons, their orchestrated charges into the riot area beating their shields with their truncheons. The drove their police cars through the crowds to get them to break up.

The rioters, ragazzi one and all, used stones, bricks, emergency flairs, and some homemade bombs that they just happened to have on them, to fight back. One such bomb went through a police car window, exploded, and killed a police officer. Things were very bad there. In the last 25 years, about 20 people have died due to soccer violence of this sort, but this was the first time a police officer died. That made a big difference.

All soccer games in Italy were cancelled. This makes it comprable to the cancelling of all sporting events after 9/11 in the US. The soccer federation, the players union, the owners, and the government had had enough, indeed, more than enough. Even Burlesconi agreed with Prodi's government about the cancellation of the games, although he was quick to say that missed games must be made up in the future. After all, the team he owns was scheduled to have a home game that was cancelled and he would lose revenue, and his friend Rupert Murdoch, who owns broadcast rights to all Series A games, was going to take a financial bath due to the cancelled games.

The game was an important one, as Palermo is in fourth place in Series A (the big leagues of Italian Soccer), and Catania, in its first year in Series A, was in fifth place. The top four teams get to compete in the all Europe Champions League the following year, as well as Series A, and that is very important, professionally as well as financially. So it was a big game.

As it turns out, Palermo did win the game, two goals to one. It was difficult to find this out, as the score was not reported in the first three pages of stories about the game and its aftermath in the sports section.

Usually, on Sundays, when most of the games are played, while Sky Satellite broadcasts all of the games, two of the national and many local TV stations broadcast commentary on the games in front of a live audience in a studio. Fans for the various teams cheer when it is announced that their side has scored a goal, and one station actually has a group of soccer players re-enact each goal that is scored from an otherwise unused soccer pitch.

I would have thought that the studio stadio broadcasts would be cancelled along with the games, replaced by third run Sunday afternoon, there is nothing better to do than watch, old movies. But no, the programs carried on, with the usual mix of fans, and instead of announcing goals, various players, owners, referees, and government officials were interviewed live in the studio or on telephone hook ups. As each weighed in and said that the hooliganism had to stop, each was in turn cheered by the audience, who also took turns saying it was terrible that someone died, and something had to be done.

Such unanimity is indeed unusual in Italy.

But enough about soccer, let us talk about gasoline. You of course know that Italians pay about twice what Americans pay for gas, indeed I have enjoyed telling gas station clerks that I like the low prices when I get the tank filled when I am visiting in the US. They think I am kidding.

Right now, the government is trying to liberalize the regulations of who can sell gas, and at what price. The gas station owners are against this, as they have, through their trade association, an informal monoploy. The benzineolli (pump jockeys) are also against this, as if shopping centers are allowed to start selling gas, they may be non union workers and may take jobs away from their heretofore strong union. So all of the gas stations in Italy are closed for two days, and in Sicily, for some reason, for three days. There is a gas station open in Sciacca, that is available to police cars, ambulances, post office vehicles, and a few busses and commercial carriers. It is monitored by the police, to make sure citizens to not get gasoline during the strike.

The night before the strike, the lines of folks at gas stations reminded me of the lines at gas stations in the US when there was an announced shortage. And everyone was getting a full tank, although usually in Sicily people buy no more than ten or twenty euros of gas at a time (about 8 or 16 liters, or two to four gallons). Yes, even I filled my tank. After working through the lines, the benzineolli will need a few days off.

The national anti mafia commission, with a new head, has made a startling discover. The mafia has infiltrated a new group of organizations, and is using their infiltration to extract money from the government that would otherwise be spent for the common good. The group of organizations are the regional, provincial, and local organizations that get government funding to fight the mafia. Now I do not claim to be super hip, but everyone I knew was aware of this for a long time, even me. The mafia is not stupid. . . if they can control the fight against themselves, and pick up a good bit of cash from the government in the mean time, they are there!! They know it is not profitable to shoot public figures or private citizens any more, so they have found a new cash cow. Big surprise.

Finally, a note on Scicca's Mardi Gras celebration. The Carnevale, as we call it, is the oldest in Sicily, and gets funding left over from the fight for and against the mafia, from the region. Last year they got 200,000 euros to help pay for temporary infrastructure changes, the building of the parade floats, and name entertainment. This year they were told that times were hard, and were budgetted for only 180,000 Euros, a ten percent cut. When it was time for the money to flow, the regional government told Sciacca that times were even tougher, and that only 162,000 Euros would be forth coming. They talked about the other important projects in Sicily (like fighting the mafia?), and how they could not afford to pay the original figure. This caused great concern among the Sciacca organizers, as they scraped and cut to cover costs for the event, which starts on February 17th.

Two days later, the regional government announced that they were going to increase the funding for the Carnevale in Acireale, near Catania, by 50,000 Euros. Times indeed must be tough. It makes me wonder how they got to be owed such a nice political favor, and how much of it might be destined to, well, you know, the guys that control the anti mafia organizations.

Ah, Sicily. You gotta love it.

The New Windmills

The New Windmills


The new windmills
Aluminum shafts suddenly growing
On the high ridge across the bay
Remind me of half forgotten pictures
Of Calvary Hill
More crosses now
More thieves to worship




Slowly the sunlight changes angle
The crosses disappear
To memory
Shafts of sunlight
Pick out a further city
Modern apartment buildings
Peek through a further pass
And darken again

The autumn light fades to evening
I watch flecks of snow
Blow across the sea
Evolving into gulls
Taking flight once more
Waiting for the evening fleet
To come with loads of fish
Cleaning their scuppers
For another avian cena

Just before we are left in darkness
Just before the lights of Mount Kronios
Flicker on to create the castle of fantasy again
Just before the line of street lights in Ribera
Divide heaven and earth again
The crosses glow again
Then fade into the whispers
Of Sicilian Vespers

R Stevan Jonas

Carl's poem

My dear friend Carl Buchin wrote the following poem shortly after Fran died. I read it in Dunkirk, and for those of you who were not there, I would like to share it with you. Carl is a poet, guitar player, and retired computer code writer in the Bay Area of California. Fran and I visited him three times in California, and he and his wonderful wife Claudia visited us here once. His son Josh also came here, and used our house as a base of operations as he began his exploration of Europe. Carl agreed to allow me to post it here.

I Have No Image

I have no image to use
As you would point out
No surreal metaphor
No voice in the cabinet
Of wishes and desires
To distract the fact that you are
No longer on this planet.

We don't want to admit
Your laughter could vanish
Mother's heart could stop
Billie Holiday playing
Without you listening
Books never to be opened
Your eyes closed
Like the eyes of the dawn
When morning arrives
And only pain survives

But you are gone
Overnight this world
You loved for the beauty
Of the garden for the
Taste of garlic and orange
For the possibility of love
And the time to grow
Overnight this world
Shaped to you plan
Returns to weeds and nettles

The is no image, Fran

Ricotta

Yesterday was Sunday. My summer neighbor Totò (short for Salvatore, or Turridù in Sicilian) (and sometimes shortened to Tò) stopped by on Saturday afternoon to invite me to get some ricotta for breakfast Sunday morning with him. We would go up to Caltabellotta where they make the ricotta, and the serve breakfast and dinner to anyone who wants to come. It sounded like a strange enough adventure, so I decided to go.

Fran never really liked Ricotta cheese, or pecorino, for that matter. The smell always reminded her of the smell of the goat her father kept when she was young, and she did not like the smell of the goat either. For that reason alone, Fran may have not wanted to go on this excursion. Also, I think Tò invited me to go as a way of showing his concern, as a way of forcing me out of the house and to be with people. He also wants me to join him at the year old bingo parlor, where they all know him, he is such a steady client. Tò feels I should not be alone right now.

I agreed to go with him, and met him outside his house at 8:30, along with his son (Vinc)Enzo. We stopped and picked up a friend of his, Onofrio and Onofrio's son, whose name I did not catch. Off we went to Caltabellotta, only 20 kilometers away, but 1 kilometer more in altitude than Sciacca. Caltabellotta is the mountain town you can see from Sciacca, and all three roads that lead there are fairly narrow and twisty. It was never Fran's favorite ride. We do know some folks from Great Britain that bought a small house there after they tired of living in the harbor on their boat for two years. They say the weather is always beautiful, and that they are often above the clouds. It is also the place that I see heavy dark clouds hanging just above on many days when it is sunny here, and it is the place I see snow on the ground once or twice each winter.

In many ways it is a typical Sicilian mountain town, and is known as the City of Peace because it was in Caltabellotta that the treaty was signed that ended the Sicilian War of the Vespers between the Angivinians and the Aroganeese in 1302. It is small enough so that when the kids are old enough for high school, they must board a bus each day and go to high school in Sciacca, Ribera, or Menfi. They are known for excellent olive oil, ricotta cheese, and Tò tells me their wine is also great, but I think it might be too sweet.

Totò drove up the winding roads, turning off at the sign for the wind farm. Fran and I had taken this side road once when we were first in Sciacca, and after about 500 meters we decided to turn around, as the road got narrower, more full of pot holes than not, and was incredibly steep with sharp drop offs. There is a wind farm at the end of the road, where about 20 windmills that can be seen from Sambucca are producing electricity. They have a beautiful majesty about them as they silently create power usable in our homes from the wind, and Fran and I loved the fact that we were getting some of our energy from apparently renewable sources.

The driving conditions did not bother Totò at all, as he followed the still cratered road until it gave up any signs of paving, and later became a double track. We drove by a nature reserve, which even had one of the old style houses made of dried cane. Eventually we came to the restuarant La Montagna, and we were the first to arrive. The owner was a friend of Totò's, and he was busy making ricotta. As he formed the fresh cheese into wheels to drain, I watched another man bring a thirty liter can of fresh, still warm goat's milk from the milking barn. The cheese maker's wife tended the bread baking in the large wood oven.

The owner took a large handful of the ricotta that he was getting to set, and gave each of us a small ball of it, which we had to squeeze dry before eating. As we wandered around, looking at the goats, the sheep, the swans, and the pig pen, they continued to work on the cheese. The cheese making area has piping that sends the left over curd and cheesy water directly to the pig pen for the pigs to eat. As we walked around, other people arrived, and by the time breakfast was ready, there were about thirty of us there.

First came plates of the ricotta we had seen him beginning to dry. It was solid enough to be cut in slices. There was also pecorino cheese which had been salted and dried and aged a little bit, and of course home made olives and bread. We washed this down with water and wine. (Wine for breakfast? Onofrio said that one should always drink wine with ricotta). Then the cheese maker rang a big bell, and the freshest ricotta was ladled into bowls, still swimming in the milky residue, and the waitress brought each of us a large bowl. Totò broke bread into his fresh ricotta, and Onofrio did not. I had it both ways. Either way, it was wonderful. We ate like pigs!

Later, the waitress turned on her karaoke machine and sang Sicilian songs, and several of the guests were dressed in costumes so they could become donkeys pulling a donkey cart with the cheese maker's assistant in it. All good fun. They also had a shop of souvenirs, and many people lined up to buy pecorino to take home. They do not sell ricotta to take home, as they believe that ricotta must be fresh to be enjoyed. Without chemical treatment, which would change the flavor, ricotta begins to change its flavors after, I am told, about four hours. This is true whether it is left as is or sugared as a pastry filling. After twenty four hours, the owners of La Montagna suggest that the ricotta is best fed to the pigs. They do send fresh ricotta down to Sciacca every day for small grocery stores and fruit stands to sell. The delivery truck leaves for town as soon as the ricotta is ready, and people wait at the stores until it arrives, fresh!|

Not being able to take any ricotta home was not a big problem. No one who ate there would want anything for pranzo anyway, and they probably had eaten enough ricotta for the day. Indeed, I skipped pranzo entirely, and only had a small sandwich for dinner, I had eaten so much great ricotta in the morning.

As we strarted down the steep road, we met several cars coming up, getting there early for the pranzo seating. For pranzo, they have pasta, and lamb, and goat, and pork, and, well, you know, fresh ricotta. It may not be kosher, and Fran may not have wanted either the flavor of the ricotta nor the scary drive over the small roads, but it was indeed a good adventure, and I plan on returning sometimes when visiting friends want a neat adventure. It was a meal good for the day.

Forward to the Past

Fran used to love saying that Sicily, or at least Sciacca, was very much like Dunkirk was in the 50's. Indeed, there are many things about Sicily and Sciacca that are like things were in small town America in the 50's when we were growing up.

If you have not read about them yet, they include stores closing at noon for lunch hour; stores closing for a half day one day a week (Wednesday!!, just like in Honeoye Falls, NY where I grew up); stores being closed on Sundays. There are also new strip malls being built in Sicily, just as there were in America during the late 50's. Slowly one sees the small fruit and vegetable dealers, especially those that use their small trucks (here the three wheeled APE's) leaving their usual corners in front of grocery stores as the stores themselves start stocking cellophane wrapped, pre weighed, and pre priced produce. The amount of shelf space taken up by bread in grocery stores is increasing, as is the presence of that soft, plastic I remember as Wonder Bread, that I could take and compress into a tiny ball. No wonder some of the small panificios (bread bakeries) are having a hard time of it, and closing. The same is happening with the butcher shops, as the large mercati increase the space given over to the butcher. The same with the pasticcerias where sweet deserts are made and sold.

But I am glad to say, and Fran knew this, that Sicily is ever resilient. What other land could have been conquered so many times and still not given up its identity? Sicily has put out the welcome mat to armies of the Carthaginians, the Athenians, the Spartans, the Trojans, the Romans, the Arogoneese, the Angivinians, the Normans, the Swabians, the Germans, the English, and the Americans. (Probably some others that I do not remember right now) Every time they were conquered, they listened to whatever the new rules of comportment were to be, and they continued to do as they pleased. If they heard what sounded like a good idea, they would wait until the next wave of invasion to try it out. They said they would follow the new rules of whoever was the current ruler, and then they would blithely go on their way, doing what they had always done, frustrating the conquerors who were trying to bring about a new and improved order to Sicily. The Sicilians were always a step behind, as well as being a step ahead, and usually both at the same time.

However, suddenly, I have seen some old friends where they used to be. They have changed slightly. Their three wheel shops are cleaner, and a little fancier. They have even, some of them, built new kiosks on the sidewalks. The itinerent produce sellers are now itinerent fish mongers. The folks with the small fruit and vegetable shops are now the folks with the small fish shops. The old APE's are retrofitted with water proof beds and refrigeration units. The fruit kiosks are getting more electricity for more refrigeration. More and more neighborhoods are getting their own fish peddler, sometimes where a panificio used to be. Of course, the fancy new markets do not want to have fresh fish, as it spoils too quickly, and even wrapping it in plastic does not hide the smell of pesce spada gone bad.

And thank goodness, more and more Sicilians are returning to their butcher, their baker, their ortofruttici, and ignoring the prewrapped, prepriced drek that is on the supermarket shelf. They have found that at least when the neighborhood guy puts the rotten strawberris on the bottom of the container, they can dig down and find out how many strawberries are rotten. In the supermarkets, it is not possible to do that under the plastic wrap. They have also found that only at the butcher shop can they watch to see how much bone is ground into their sausage, and such a thing is just not possible in the large supermarkets, where you can only watch through the big windows as the butchers work fifteen feet away. Slowly, just about everyone but the nonni are becoming aware that even though junior and junioressa seem to like the softer, seemingly fresher bread, there may be something wrong with bread that was made in Milan, shipped to Sicily, and has a stay fresh date for a week on the shelf.

So Forza Sicily!! The retro trend may take hold. Of course, I think we will still get strip malls, but perhaps they will have smaller stores, specializing in what they do best. The big box electronic stores (yes, we have them) will continue to draw customers for the big ticket items, that can not be easily brought into a shop for repair. I think folks will start flocking back to the little guys, who are willing to help with repair, or help get the warrenty honored on the smaller appliances.

With the new super taxes on the monster automobiles (by monster automobiles, I basically mean anything larger than a VW Golf) the popularity of the smaller European cars is coming back. Of course, they may be driving fuel cell cars here long before America has such cars available as prototypes for testing. So who said Sicily always has to look through a telescope to see the 21st century?

Now if we could only get them to modernize the health care system. Then people would not be treated merely because they are ill and in need of a doctor's care, but because they have a lot of money or good insurance. That would be real progress here.

Perhaps we are stuck in the 50's. Perhaps we are even crawling into the 60's. But it is here Fran loved to be, and it is where I want to continue to be as well.

Steve

Another Day

Another day without Fran. I felt her presence more strongly today than any other day, as I did my rounds to get the newspaper, the mail, fresh furit and vegatables, and a few other things in town.

Yesterday I wrote about her sense that things were the same in Sciacca today as they were in Dunkirk, or small twon America, in the 50's. One of the things I just happened to mention was strawberries. I did not know why I mentioned them. They were not in the fruit stalls in Palermo when I was there yesterday, and they were not around last Saturday, when I last went shopping for fruits and veggies. Well, they are here today. Fran used to love it when I would bring home the fresh strawberries and wash them and get them ready to eat. We would refrigerate them under a dusting of sugar, and them impatiently wait until it was time for our post cena fruit and dolce.

Well, they are washed and sliced and dusted now. And yes, I will wait until it is the right time to eat them before I take them out of the frigo. I know they will taste sweet, but they will indeed be a bitter sweet.

Sometimes it only takes a word to remind me of Fran. That was the case today at Panificio Americano, which is where I usually go to buy my fresh bread and rolls. Fran liked to learn a new word, and then use it at every opportunity, so it would stay with her. When she found out that 'accidenti' meant 'damn' ('incidente' means 'accident') just before we visited Amsterdam, she kept looking around her at Dam Square and saying 'accidenti'.

'Chiacchierare' was one of her favorite recent new words. She would love to describe the ladies who stand ankle deep in the water in the summer, as women who spend their whole day in chiacchierare. It means talking, or gossiping, or just plain chatting. Today, they had a new dolce (for me) at Panificio Americano. It was called 'Chiacchierare de Carnevale'. They were small pieces of fried sweet dough. They were fried crispy, and dusted with powedered sugar, and were shaped like small tongues.

Paola explained to me that Carnevale is the time when people just get together and talk and talk and talk. Chiacchierare, chiacchiere, chiacchiere, as Fran would have loved to have said. So these little sweet tongues were made in honor of all the folks that come to carnevale in Sciacca only to get with old friends and chiacchierare, barely looking at the floats with their dancers fore and aft as they march by in the procession. Fran would have loved it.

A word that I am becoming more familiar with is the Italian word for owls. As many of you know, I sometimes joke by saying something that might be true, but is not true. It is usually something absurd, like the George Washington Bridge authority is suing the current president for using their initials without permission. When it is something that is really true, even though it sounds absurd, some folks ask me if I am serious. My favorite response at times like that is 'I am as serious as a tree full of owls.' Now that I know the Italian word for owls, I can change my response to 'I am as serious as a tree full of gufi.' I think Fran would have liked that.

The thing Fran would not have liked is today's weather. It was pretty much bright and sunny all day yesterday, but today the weather forecast called for cold winds blowing down from the north. The Alps and the Appenines are supposed to (finally) get some snow, and we are just supposed to get the cold.

Of course it does not seem to be working that way today. We are getting the start of a Sirocco, the sky is grey, the wind is from the south, and while it is surprisingly cool, the wind is unsettling, and the grit of the sand from the Sahara is starting to cross the sea and freshen our beaches. Always weather sensitive, this was Fran's least favorite weather in Sicily. She got used to the thunder storms, but never did get aloing will with the Sirocci.

Be that as it may, we are getting the cold wind, so it will be a good day to stay inside, take care of some business, do some writing, and then eat the strawberries, and think of my beloved Francesca.

Steve

Dove Francesca

I wrote this poem the day after my beloved wife Fran died on December 12th in Palermo. I read it at a memorial service celebrating her life in Dunkirk, NY on December 22nd. I am now back in Sciacca, a place that she loved dearly.

The word Dove in the title is the Italian word 'Dove', pronounced 'dové ', and it means 'where is.

DOVE FRANCESCA

Dove Francesca
She is at Sunset point
Watching the waves crash into
The ancient mill wheel mine
And waiting for sunset
Looking out over Selinunte

Dove Franci
She is in her garden
Helping bring dead plants to life
And live plants to flower

Dove Franca
She is snorkeling
At Baia Renella Beach
Playing with the fish
And wondering why
Everyone else
Just stands knee deep

Dove Chicha
She is on her terrace
Watching the lights and the clouds
The moon and the stars
The sun rising
Or just reading a book

Dove Chich
She is in my heart
And the hearts of her children
Always there
While we miss her physical self

Dove Francine
She is with all of us.

R Stevan Jonas